


The Song of Forgetting

by esking



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:17:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esking/pseuds/esking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac jokingly called it verbal dyslexia. That's all it was: a joke.</p><p>When Grantaire looked at him, his eyes were confused. "But I thought…" he shook his head. "Wrong again, wrong. Why can't I remember?"<br/>"What did you think?"<br/>"I thought…" Grantaire was still frowning. "I think…you don't like me. I think."<br/>Enjolras forced himself to smile, and made his decision, a decision he knew he would have to live with indefinitely.<br/>"I love you, Grantaire," he said firmly. "Don't you remember?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Song of Forgetting

 

 

_ The End of a Love Story: _

_And you'll say to this stranger_

_You see on the street_

_'Excuse me, I love you,_

_how did we meet?'_

It started out slow, which is probably why no one noticed. They all laughed when Grantaire said "nodubby" instead of "nobody," or called pizza cake because he couldn't think of the right word, or when he held his hands out with his fingertips touching to make a circle instead of saying bagel. A lot of the time when he talked fast his syllables would get mixed up to the point where they couldn't actually understand what he was saying anymore. At their confused expressions, Grantaire would look to Eponine, who had known him the longest and who usually had at least a little better understanding of what he was trying to get at.

Courfeyrac jokingly called it verbal dyslexia. That's all it was: a joke.

Enjolras was the first to notice it as something more, purely by accident. He and Grantaire were the last ones left in the back room of the Musain, Enjolras stacking up his papers and sorting them away, Grantaire humming softly in the corner, half asleep, almost empty beer bottle held loosely in his hand.

There was no reason for Enjolras to pay attention to their resident drunk, so he did not. He was confident Grantaire was alright, and confident that he could make his own way home when he wanted. And anyway, Grantaire wasn't Enjolras' responsibility.

These were Enjolras' thoughts until he heard the voice rise in pitch and volume and then the crash of shattering glass. He looked up sharply and saw Grantaire on his knees beside his chair, snatching the shards up in his hands, muttering furiously to himself with a fervor Enjolras had never before seen in him.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras hesitantly crossed the room and stood over Grantaire. Grantaire did not acknowledge his presence, but continued to scoop up the glass shards and mutter his _sotto voce_ chant. Enjolras knelt down, and heard the words Grantaire was saying.

"Eponine, Marius, Feuilly, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, Combeferre, Enjolras, Enjolras, Marius, Courfeyracbahoreleponinebossuetjehanmariusjolycombeferre home, drink, bottle, wine, cereal, Enjolras, Combeferre, Marius, Enjolras, bed home Rue Marcelin home Enjolras home drink beer wine absinthe home Enjolras wine bottle drink glass glass glass _glass!_ " He slammed his fist, still full of glass, down on the floor. Enjolras grabbed at it, and his hand came away slick with blood.

"Hey! Grantaire, look at me," he ordered. Every cell in his brain was screaming _what the hell!_ but he didn't have time to freak out right now. So, for perhaps the only time in his life, Enjolras shut off his brain and listened to his instinct -- or, for the more romantically inclined, his heart.

Slowly and reluctantly, Grantaire raised his head. His ice-blue eyes were wide and distant. "I have to say it," he said, quiet but emphatic, as though it was both secret and extremely important. "I have to say it over and over and over or I'll forget." Fear flickered through the bloodshot eyes. "I don’t want to forget." He clutched at Enjolras' hand. "I can't forget."  
"It's alright. You won't forget," Enjolras promised for lack of a better idea. Because his head, which would have baulked at the idea of 1) making empty promises and 2) guaranteeing anything where Grantaire was concerned, was not in control and the tiny, pathos part of Enjolras (which _did_ exist) dictated that this frightened drunk be comforted. So Enjolras comforted him.

"You won't."

"I will." Grantaire was speaking very slowly and precisely, like every word took enormous effort to find. "I have already… forgotten so much. I open my eyes and I don't know the word for where I am sleeping, or what I am eating. I remember how to smile like nothing is wrong. And I remember your face. And I remember your names if I say them enough." He looked back down at the floor and resumed his chanting. "Bahorel, Marius, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Eponine, Marius, Joly…Oh no, I've forgotten one." He counted out on his fingers: "Marius, Joly, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Enjolras…" he raised panicked eyes to Enjolras. "Who have I remembered? _No!_ Forgotten. Forgotten is the word. Who?"

Enjolras sat down on the floor beside Grantaire, not caring that he was staining his jeans with beer. He held up a finger as he said each name. "Marius, Combeferre." Grantaire repeated the names. He was genuinely starting to scare Enjolras. For a moment the idea to take him to Joly, or better yet a doctor, flitted through his mind, but the heart that was focused nearly entirely on Grantaire's feelings ( _fuck this pathos_ ) instantly shot that idea down. He kept counting. "Feuilly, Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet."

Grantaire repeated them.

"Courfeyrac. Jehan."

"Courfeyrac, Jehan."

"Enjolras."

Grantaire blinked. "That's you."

Enjolras nodded. "That's me."

Grantaire contemplated his bleeding palms. "Why does penna?"

Before Enjolras could ask what he meant, Grantaire swore and said, " _Happen!_ Why. Does. This. Happen?"

"I don't know," Enjolras answered honestly (the last truly honest thing he would say for a long, long while). "But I will help you. I promise." And there went the promises again, observed the captive logos. Because he knew he couldn't keep it. But he made it anyways.

When Grantaire looked at him, his eyes were confused. "But I thought…" he shook his head. "Wrong again, wrong. Why can't I remember?"

"What did you think?" Enjolras was sure he knew the answer, and just as sure that it was true. Because, contrary to popular belief, Enjolras was not a blind fool, and not at all ignorant of Grantaire's feelings for him, nor of the others' exasperated curiosity as to whether or not they were reciprocated.

There was no doubt about the answer: they were not.

"I thought…" Grantaire was still frowning. "I think…you don't like me. I think."

Enjolras forced himself to smile, and made his decision, a decision he knew he would have to live with indefinitely.

"I love you, Grantaire," he said firmly. "Don't you remember?" He leaned forward and kissed Grantaire, first softly then harder and fiercer. Grantaire surged forward into him, raking bloody fingers through Enjolras' hair, wrapping surprisingly strong arms around his neck.

At long last they broke apart, and Grantaire muttered against Enjolras' lips, "I don't remember this."

"You will," Enjolras promised. Promises, promises, fucking promises.

Together they stood up, Grantaire leaning heavily into Enjolras' supporting hand, and left the Musain.

**oOo**

It was easier to admit to their friends that they had finally gotten together than it was to tell the truth. So Enjolras stayed at Grantaire's side, and they played a secret game of charades and name-that-word, so smoothly that the others never noticed a thing. For a time, Enjolras thought, things actually seemed to be getting better.

Grantaire could hold his own in a conversation (although Enjolras always stayed instinctively within earshot, ready to swoop in to the rescue), he could greet all his friends by name (which was harder to notice, because he was very good at maneuvering through chatter so as to avoid the need to address anyone by name), he could even recite Shakespeare he'd memorized in 10th grade.

Of course some days were still bad, and though usually only an empty bottle fell victim to Grantaire's frustration, sometimes it was Enjolras caught in the line of fire, subjected to cruel, sharp retorts and sometimes even an (admittedly uncoordinated) flying fist. Some days Grantaire wouldn't (or couldn't) speak at all, and would curl moodily onto the couch in a tight ball and ignore Enjolras completely. But then he would wake up, stretch, and immediately launch into a nonstop, stream-of-consciousness commentary of jokes, observations and questions.

Enjolras dared to hope.

But soon after that, everything plummeted downhill.

There was a crash from the kitchen and Enjolras found Grantaire still standing, looking down at the shattered remains of a bowl scattered around his fee. His hands were shaking so violently they appeared blurred.

"Hey, hey." Enjolras stepped gingerly across the floor and took both of Grantaire's hands in his. "It's alright. What happened?"

As explanation, Grantaire offered his trembling hands. "They won't move when I tell them too."

Enjolras kissed both hands, and as he did so, captive logos broke free, though it was still tempered by pathos. And he did what he should have done weeks earlier: "We need to take you to a doctor."

And if he'd had any doubts about his decision, they were dashed a moment later when Grantaire replied, "I don’t know what that means."

**oOo**

The decision to tell the others followed quickly behind the meeting with the doctor. Enjolras called everyone over to his (and Grantaire's, for he had not gone home in weeks) apartment on a Friday night - much to Courfeyrac's irritation, because he'd had "serious babes on the line, man," but he came anyways.

They all trickled in at around eight, Bahorel and Feuilly making straight for the stash of beer in the fridge (which, Combeferre had noticed, Grantaire had not touched; a seed of dread was planted in the pit of his stomach.)

Grantaire was seated in the ragged old armchair with Eponine perched at his shoulder, one hand resting on his arm. The others lounged in varying states of ease on the similarly ragged couch, or on the floor before it.

When everyone was assembled, Enjolras cleared his throat and silence fell immediately. He was standing in the center of the room before the couch where Jehan, Courfeyrac, Joly and Bossuet sat, with Marius, Feuilly and Bahorel and their feet and Combeferre standing behind them, much less at ease.

"Uh…hi," said Enjolras. He was lost for words for the first time in his life. _Fucking pathos_. "Uh, thanks for coming. I guess you all-"

"Fucking bush around beating," Grantaire snarled from the chair. All of their friends swiveled to look and him and exchange horrified glances. Only Combeferre did not look surprised, and had Enjolras had eyes for anyone but Grantaire, he would have realized that his oldest friend had suspected something for a long time. Because he knew Enjolras too well to accept the fairy tale love story. He knew Enjolras too well to delude himself that love was even a factor.

Enjolras bowed his head in assent. "You're right. There's no point beating around the bush." He took a deep, steadying breath, steeling himself. "Grantaire-"

"It's cancer." Enjolras heard the telltale tremor which always preceded a bad episode and tensed, but Grantaire pushed himself up from the chair with encouraging strength and crossed the floor, and his knees only trembled a little bit under his weight. He made it to Enjolras' side and Enjolras gripped his arm tightly, all pretenses forgotten, and held him steady.

Grantaire spoke slowly and carefully, working hard on each word. "Speaking. Went. First…then. Memory…now…movement."

Eponine was biting down hard on her bottom lip, but Enjolras knew better than to expect her to cry. Everyone was making a valiant effort not to look absolutely horrified, but only Combeferre was really succeeding, his face as stoic as always. Perhaps because to him this was not entirely a surprise, and because he knew that there was no tragedy of star-crossed lovers or broken-hearted survivors. The revelation of the lie dims the sparkle of a fantasy, after all.

A sudden weight on his hand distracted Enjolras from his friends, and he was dragged down sideways as Grantaire's knees gave way and he sank to the floor.

"Bahorel, Feuilly, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Marius, Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, Eponine, Enjolras, Enjolras, Eponine, Bossuet, Joly, Jehan, Marius, Courfeyrac, Combeferre-"

"Hey!" said Enjolras, more sharply than he had intended. "Hey," he said again, gentler, "look at me." He cupped Grantaire's face in his hands, ignoring all the eyes on them. "It's alright, they're all here. Look."

Enjolras pointed one by one at their friends, making Grantaire say the names with him. "Marius, Feuilly, Bahorel, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, Eponine." They each did their best to smile encouragingly at Grantaire when he looked at them.

"We're gonna stand up now. One, two, three." Enjolras pulled Grantaire to his feet and led him gingerly to the bedroom. "It's fine, just lie down. I'll be back in a little bit."

Grantaire allowed himself to be tucked in like a child, his eyes darting around the room as though searching for something familiar. Enjolras kissed Grantaire's forehead, then returned to the living room and pulled the bedroom door shut behind him.

Jehan was crying in earnest now, with Courfeyrac's arm wrapped around his shoulder. Eponine's hands were clutched on the armrests of Grantaire's vacated chair, in which she now sat with her legs curled up beneath her.

Enjolras leveled a stern look at each of them in turn. "The tumor is inoperable. The doctor gives him two months at the outside." Eponine stifled a tiny gasp. "He has made it clear that there will be no coddling and no patronizing. He wants everything to be like normal-"

"Normal?" said Courfeyrac in a voice that was clearly intended to be angry, but that was undermined by the sharp crack in it. "You want us to act _normal_? He's fucking dying!"

"Courf, don't," muttered Combeferre, laying a gentle hand on his arm. Courfeyrac jerked away.

"This is fucked up." He was on his feet. "You want us to just pretend like nothing's happening while his brain leaks out his ea-" Enjolras floored him with one punch. Courfeyrac looked balefully up at him, one hand on his jaw, but didn’t speak.

"We will all proceed as normal," Enjolras repeated. "Am I understood?" Everyone nodded mutely.

"How can this be happening?" Bossuet asked of his hands, which were cupped, resting on his knees. "This doesn't happen to people like us. This is for bad soaps and Oscar nominees, not real people."

"That doesn't change the fact that it _is_ happening," said Combeferre. "And we have to deal with what's in front of us. And we will respect Grantaire's wishes." If anyone heard the break in his voice as he said Grantaire's name, they didn't mention it.

Enjolras nodded his thanks to Combeferre. In the next few minutes, everyone filtered out in twos and threes, Marius mumbling something about Cosette, Bahorel and Feuilly just throwing out half-articulated apologies and fleeing the apartment.

Combeferre was the last to leave. He cast a cautious look at the bedroom door, then said softly to Enjolras, "You can't do this."

"I have to," replied Enjolras.

"He isn't your responsibility. He never has been."

"I made him my responsibility. This is my choice."

"But you're lying." Even in his soft whisper, Combeferre's voice was harsh, almost cruel. "You don't love him. You never have."

Enjolras looked down at his feet.

"Is that what you told him?" asked Combeferre.

"Yes." The word came out in a hiss. "He believes what I tell him. He doesn't remember."

"So you lied."

"I told him what he needed to hear," Enjolras snapped. "Sue me."

Combeferre's eyes narrowed as he chewed over his next words. "You know I'm always behind you," he said. "Just…don't hurt yourself."

"I'm fine," said Enjolras coldly. "Thank you for your concern."

Combeferre clapped him on the shoulder, then turned on his heel and strode from the apartment.

Enjolras took a moment to collect himself before returning to the bedroom, where he found Eponine sitting on the bed with Grantaire's head in her lap, running her fingers through his hair and singing softly. Dimly, Enjolras recognized it as the same tune Grantaire had been humming that first night at the Musain.

_Carry on my wayward son_

_There'll be peace when you are done_

_Lay your weary head to rest_

_Don't you cry no more_

Grantaire's eyes were closed. He looked more peaceful than he had in months. Enjolras sat down beside Eponine and she leaned into him.

"You okay?" she asked.

"No," said Enjolras. "Not even close."

He felt Eponine nod against his shoulder. "Me neither." She tangled her fingers in the dark curls above Grantaire's ear. His brain was in there, less than an inch away. That traitorous thing that was stealing her best friend away, killing him right before her eyes.

"I knew something was wrong. But I never thought…" she leaned heavier into Enjolras. "What's going to happen?"

"I don't know," Enjolras admitted. "But we'll get through, just like we always do."

They sat together for a long time. Eventually, Eponine went back to her singing and Enjolras felt himself almost being lulled to sleep by her voice.

**oOo**

The next week, Enjolras told his boss he was taking a personal leave of absence. A week after that, Grantaire could not get out of bed by himself, and Enjolras took him back to the hospital, where it was decided Grantaire would stay so as to provide around the clock care. Enjolras spent the better part of the next two weeks in Grantaire's room, mostly reading to him  or watching him sleep. By that point, Grantaire had almost completely lost the ability to speak, and when Courfeyrac, Jehan and Combeferre came to visit, he did not recognize them. Enjolras and Eponine were the only two he could immediately identify.

Enjolras was partway through the first Harry Potter book - Grantaire's favorite - when Doctor Valjean knocked on the door and entered, holding a clipboard and looked horribly grim.

"I'm discharging him," said Valjean. "You may take him home."

Enjolras straightened and closed the book without marking his page. He was delirious with exhaustion and - with the snow white hair and frameless glasses, even though the hair was short and the glasses full circles - half-convinced that he was looking at Professor Dumbledore. He blinked and cleared his throat.

"Is he better?"

"No," said Valjean bluntly. "But I thought he might be more comfortable in familiar surroundings. There's nothing more we can do for him here, but perhaps being at home would help…ease the passing."

"No," said Enjolras, rea0lizing what Valjean was getting at. "No, it's only been a month, you said two months, you said-"

"If we were lucky," Valjean interrupted. "We were not. The tumor has consumed most of his brain. Whatever time he has left, he fights for himself. But, speaking from experience, last moments are best shared at home, not in a hospital ward."

Enjolras nodded, not quite registering what he was agreeing to. "Alright."

He took Grantaire home that night. When they first walked in the door, there was no recognition on Grantaire's face.

"Is this…" he clenched his jaw and nodded firmly, more to himself than Enjolras. "I live here." Enjolras could tell he was trying hard to sound confident. "I do. I remember this."

"That's good. That's really good, R." Enjolras realized as he said it that he'd never learned what the R stood for. He wondered if Grantaire still remembered.

They sat down on the couch and Enjolras turned on the TV but neither of them watched it, and he made macaroni and cheese but neither of them ate it. He called Eponine and thought about calling the others but decided against it because he didn't want to overwhelm Grantaire.

Eponine arrived half an hour later and wrapped Enjolras in a tight hug. When she turned to Grantaire he regarded her warily before forcing a smile and accepting her hug.

"Hey, sweetie," she said. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm alright," said Grantaire. His speaking had gotten better since Enjolras had started reading to him, but Enjolras could not tell if it was truly progress or just a last ditch effort. "I'm glad to be home."

Enjolras had not told Eponine what Dr. Valjean had said. He decided that he wouldn't.

"You look awful," said Eponine with a laugh. "Aren't you eating?"

"Yeah, we just had dinner." With a pang, Enjolras saw Grantaire cast a covert look into the kitchen, where their dirty but empty dishes sat on the counter. He didn't remember. How long had he been using those clues to lie about forgetting?

"We were just watching some Gilligan's Island if you want to stay."

"Sure."

Eponine curled up into Grantaire's side on the couch and they went through an episode in which all the men on the island started secretly building new huts on stilts in the center of the island because the professor thought it was sinking into the ocean. As the end credits rolled, Grantaire stood up and went into the kitchen. Enjolras followed.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Grantaire refused to meet his gaze. "Is that…is she my girlfriend in there?" he whispered.

Enjolras closed his eyes. "No, R."

"I don't remember her name."

"She's Eponine. She's your best friend."

"She's not my girlfriend?"

"You don't have a girlfriend."

"I don't?"

"You have me."

"Are you my boyfriend?"

It was the first time they had used that word, but Enjolras supposed it was the most accurate one they had. "Yes."

"Oh." A pause. "Do you love me?"

"Yes." Enjolras blinked in surprise at his own promptness. It was true. Was it? Where did caretaker and lover overlap? Did they?

"Am I missing the party?" Eponine appeared in the doorway with a sleepy smile. Enjolras glanced at the clock and saw that it was past midnight.

"Hey, you should get to bed. 'Ponine, couch is yours if you want it."

"Yeah, okay. See you in the morning." Eponine hugged them both and shuffled back to the couch.

Grantaire followed Enjolras into their bedroom and they undressed in silence. They lay down together and Enjolras wrapped one arm around Grantaire's chest like he always did, and Grantaire relaxed into him like he always did, and Grantaire fell asleep hoping.

**oOo**

Enjolras was awoken a few hours later by Grantaire's voice soft in his ear. He shifted and opened his eyes. The full moon shone through the window, throwing rippled squares of blue and white across Grantaire's face. His eyes glinted darkly.

"Enjolras?"

"Hmm?"

"What's your first name?"

Enjolras felt an icy hand grip his heart. "Jean-Luc," he answered.

"What's - what's my name?"

The hand tightened. A hard lump rose in Enjolras' throat and he swallowed before saying, "Rémi," and praying that Grantaire wouldn't remember watching Ratatouille earlier that night. Because the truth was he didn't know Grantaire's name, and he wondered how he'd gotten into the hospital in the first place, and how insurance had been taken care of and how anything had been done.

Maybe his guess about Valjean being Dumbledore hadn't been too far off.

"Tell me about us."

"Don't you remember?" asked Enjolras, terrified.

"I remember the Musain and Harry Potter and mac and cheese."

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

A long silence. Enjolras imagined Grantaire searching frantically through his mutilated memory, tearing up stones and ripping floorboards apart.

"No."

Enjolras sighed and stared at the ceiling. Then he prayed for the first time in 15 years. _God, forgive me for what I am about to do._

"You were in an accident and hit your head," he said in a constricted voice. "The doctor said your memory would be a little fuzzy, but it'll come back in time."

He heard Grantaire let out his breath. "I remember your name. But I don't remember you." He rolled until he was pressed right up against Enjolras. "Tell me about us."

"We met in college," Enjolras lied. "It was a Thursday. I was late for class and tried to take a short cut through the arts studio. And there you were, painting a huge damn mural of…France. French history. And at the top it said, ' _Laissez les autres se lèvent à prendre nos places jusqu'à la terre est libre._ '"

"You remember what it said?" asked Grantaire. His words were slurring, and Enjolras tried to tell himself it was sleep over taking him and not…the other thing.

"Yes," Enjolras said firmly. "You had paint all over your clothes and hands, and you shook my hand and got paint on my sleeve."

"Sorry," Grantaire mumbled. Enjolras thought he might actually throw up from the guilt.

"And then you apologized," he continued. "And asked me out for coffee. And then…everything was right."

"Did we fight a lot?"

Enjolras felt himself stiffen and prayed Grantaire had not. "No," he lied. "Why?"

He felt the scrape of stubble as Grantaire shook his head. "I don't know… I remember you yelling at me."

Enjolras kissed his forehead. "Just a bad dream." His voice was failing him. "I would never yell at you." Grantaire's breathing had slowed to a steady rise and fall. Enjolras relaxed and stared at the ceiling, letting himself get lost in that unfailing rhythm, that stubborn testament proving to the rest of the universe that the man beside him would keep on living.

**oOo**

You are woken up by your cold feet. You shiver and open your eyes, and are startled by the sight before you: a truly beautiful face, young and unlined, serene in sleep, framed by golden blonde curls. You shift away, frightened by such perfection and your undeserving proximity to it. You're in the same bed. You are in an angel's bed. How can it be this is yours?

The man's arm is outstretched toward you, like he fell asleep with it wrapped around you. Which would be totally fine - more than fine, magnificent, fucking perfect because have you _seen_ this guy? - except you don't remember going home with him, and you don't remember this room, and you don't remember that statue-like body and you feel like you would remember all of these things if what you think happened really happened.

Silently and carefully, you roll out of the bed and look around the room. Decent sized, books and clothes on the floor, more books on shelves, an open laptop on a desk. None of it looks familiar, supporting your budding theory of a one-night stand that you're _really_ starting to wish you remember. You're too sleepy still to be alarmed just yet. You're confident it will come back, the way dreams you forget sometimes suddenly return after lunch.

You open the bedroom door and find yourself in a bigger, open room that leads into a kitchen. There's a TV on the opposite wall and a couch facing away from you. You walk towards it and find a young woman lying there, lean and caramel-skinned with dark chocolate hair. She's awake, and sits up when she sees you, her face lit up with a smile.

"Hey there. Morning, sunshine."

You smile at her because you don't know what else to do, even though you're sure you've never seen her before in your life.

"How are you feeling today?" she asks.

You tell her, "Great," because you don't know what else to say, and you do feel good, apart from the whole not knowing where the hell you are bit. "How about you?"

"I'm fine," the girl answers. "Is Enjolras still asleep?"

You have no idea who she's talking about, but you take a chance and assume it's the angel you woke up next to and say, "Yeah, I think so."

"Well, the coffee oughta get him up. Want some?"

"Okay." Maybe the caffeine will jog your memory.

You and the nameless girl are halfway into your coffee mugs - no luck yet on the remembering, but it _is_ good coffee - when the beautiful man comes out of the bedroom, now wearing a faded old t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. He looks exhausted and haggard now that he's awake. You offer him a smile you hope looks genuine.

"Hey," he says. "How are you feeling?"

The way they're both treating you makes you wonder if you've got some deadly disease. Maybe it's early onset Alzheimer's and you forget all of the past day when you go to sleep. Maybe they're like your live-in nurses and they know whatever it is that you've forgotten. You test your theory.

"Actually, I have no idea where I am or who you are."

You don't think nurses would look this crushed. The man looks like his entire world has just been shattered. You feel like you should feel guilty but really, you just want answers.

"Not at all?" he asks in a small voice.

You shake your head, now starting to feel guilty for completely destroying all of this guy's hopes and dreams. "Sorry," you said. "I- damn it, could you just tell me where I am? And who you are? I don't want to cause any trouble, you can kick me out or…whatever." You mentally kick yourself for that last bit because you're pretty sure you have no money and no place to stay.

"Grantaire," the man says, encasing your hands in his. They're warm and callused and feel more familiar than anything today has felt. "You live here. With me, Enjolras." So at least you were right about the name. But… _live here?_ With this gorgeous, god-like thing? Maybe you're dreaming. No one this beautiful could ever love you.

You nod like you understand even though you don't. "Right, we live here." You look at the girl. "And you…"

"Don't be an idiot, Grantaire!" the girl snaps, and you flinch. "I'm Eponine and you've known me for ten fucking years so don't even start me."  
"Jesus! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" You hold up your hands in surrender, then wish you hadn't because Enjolras' hands were warm and right and you never want to let them go. "Okay, Eponine and Enjolras. Fine."

"Oh God, R, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to explode at you, I'm sorry." And suddenly you're being hugged like you don't ever remember being hugged in your life and this feels right too. You let them hug you for a long time, and then the three of you sit down at the little kitchen table.

x

You're eating a bagel but it doesn't quite taste right and you wonder why there are two beautiful strangers sitting at your breakfast table as though they have every right to be there. Maybe they know why your bagel tastes funny. The beautiful people make light conversation and you answer their questions, but find that speaking takes more effort than you would have expected, so you keep your answers short, and you notice that the two mysterious beautiful people seem a little concerned at your reticence.

x

It's a beautiful day and you decide to go walking along the left bank and you stop at a boucaniste selling paintings by some artist who only signs his paints with a swooping _R_. The seller seems to know you because he greets you with a wave and a smile. You smile back, but are more enthralled by the paintings because they feel so familiar. You imagine a brush in your hand, flying over a blank canvas until it is full of you and everything you do and feel and are. There is one painting in particular that stops you in your tracks. It is of a man, an angel really, painted from the side. He _glows._

You don't realize you're staring until you feel warmth beside you and hear a melodic voice say, "It's beautiful."

You turn and your jaw drops. The angel is there, standing beside you. This angel, the angel from the painting. He is even more divine in person, and the midday sun catches in his blonde curls and glints off, making them sparkle like gold.

"Yeah," you say, not remember what you're agreeing to because good god this man is beautiful and you want to touch him and prove to yourself that he's real but you're afraid you might burn yourself.

"Excuse me," you say before you can stop yourself. "I know this is highly irregular but I must say it or I will hate myself for the rest of my life." _Well done, Jane Austen._

The god, for really he must be - Apollo, you're sure - waits expectantly.

"I do believe I'm quite in love with you," you say. And you still sound like Mr. Fucking Darcy. "I don't even know your name, yet I feel- I love you."

The man smiles, but the gesture is tinged with sadness. For half a second, you hear Han Solo saying, "I know."  
But the man just says, "I love you, too."

Trying to hide the jubilant parade exploding inside your head, you take the man home and find that you are not at all concerned when he stops at your door and takes a key from his pocket to unlock it, even though it is _your_ apartment and you've never met this man before. But then, he is a god. They must have special privileges.

You sit down together and everything clicks into place. Everything. All the puzzle pieces that have dance tantalizingly around you, teasing you with snippets, words and faces. Now it all fits.

"I love you," you say to Enjolras, who looks thinner and more careworn than you remember, although the flame is still there.

"I love you too," he says again.

You shake your head. "No you don't. You never have."

He takes your hand. "Don't be silly, of course I do."

"But you don't. Enjolras, it's alright." This is more than you've talked in a long time, and the months behind you are hazy and dim but you know what you know and what you know is this: "You saved me. I don't have to die alone now. And even if I never receive anything in return, I love you."

"Grantaire, I-"

You shut him up with a kiss, light and chaste. "I remember everything. You don't have to lie anymore."

Enjolras' eyes harden. "I wasn't lying. And you have received so much."

Then he kisses you and you wrap your arms around him like a drowning man around a life-preserver and his hands are in your hair and his lips are on your face, your neck, your mouth and god it's so wonderful that you don't care how he feels and its hot and fast and you think you've already died and gone to heaven because you can't feel your legs and your arms have dropped to your sides and Enjolras is shaking you now with tears streaming down his face and dripping onto yours and you want to tell him it's alright because you love him and you know that he loves you and you're ready now but you can't force the air through your lungs so you helplessly watch him helplessly shake you and sob and scream something into a cell phone that you can't make out because a rushing noise is filling your ears and you're starting to feel afraid because it's getting dark but then Enjolras scoops you into his arms and holds you and everything is alright…

__

_ The End of a Love Story: _

_And you'll say to this stranger_

_You see on the street_

_'Excuse me, I love you,_

_how did we meet?'_

**Author's Note:**

> As far as I know, verbal dyslexia is not real and does not indicate mental illness (at least I hope it doesn't because I have it big time).  
> Title from Next to Normal. Sue me.


End file.
